This quiet where the words come is vibrant and fruitful . . . and I fill it with heavy, cacophanous words like “boredom” and “lazy,” echoing the mouth of a culture that puts busyness on a throne.
I read Eloise Klein Healy
Come to your senses, I say. She is dead,
and I place that foreign feeling squarely in front of me
like the postcard of a room in which the chair of an artist
painted by another artist sits empty.
and I know I need to settle with those words for a while, let them ripple into me. Think about Mom.
I revel in washing all the bed linens, a capital A Accomplishment.
I do not quiet well.
Yet, I can see the dangling, plump beginnings – like the tiny, acorn-sized plums in the farmhouse yard – in Facebook statuses and in the thoughts that skirt by as I carry laundry down the steps. They are there – the rich words – caramel, mango, that wine I had once and only just remember.
To let them grow, the silence needs to be just that. 45 minutes pulling weeds to bring the order that only Pinterest can appreciate. The vacuum run under everything left unlit. Housework as opening, as bending to words. Silence bodied into motion.
Perhaps the grace is that I can be busy – domestic, even as that is never a word I thought would settle on me – and still settle in. If I let myself settle in and push aside the worry and the judgment that comes most loudly from my own brain-sized mouth.
Here is to fruition, silent, hard, and calm.
What happens to your mind when you try to settle in, to quiet yourself and write? How do you rebel against your own intention?
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